


A Dance in the Dark

by Condiemint



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 04:31:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1332001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Condiemint/pseuds/Condiemint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly follows Sherlock into the garden after he leaves John's wedding early.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dance in the Dark

As Sherlock pulled up the collar on his coat, he heard footsteps running toward him on the gravel path. He knew it was Molly before he turned toward her. He could tell from the sound that the shoes had high heels, so it was a woman; and with a long, fluid stride that suggested youth rather than age. Who else would be coming after him? Balance of probabilities.

He turned to see her yellow dress glowing, haloed by the light that filtered out from the windows behind her. He smiled. The bow and flowers in her hair should have looked ridiculous, but he liked it. She looked perfectly Molly. She stopped a few feet in front of him, slightly out of breath.

"Molly."

"Sherlock. You’re leaving?" She looked disappointed.

"Yes."

He could read the doubt and guilt that flashed subtly across her face. She had lied to Tom so that she could follow him.

He knew she wanted to be over him. She had thought that she was. But then he had come back to London and just being there was making everything more difficult for her. That was never what he wanted. He wanted her to be happy. And it was logical that he could never make her happy, even if she did love him. As much as he might want to be the one who…

"But you didn’t dance," she said, interrupting his thoughts.

"No," he said. "There was no one to dance with." 

He observed her hand reach toward him slightly before dropping to her side. A tingle ran over his arm where she would have touched him. His stomach lurched and tightened. He knew it was just dopamine running through his system, but he felt off balance.

"You could have danced with me," she said, twisting her hands together.

"You were with Tom. I didn’t want to intrude." Only partly a lie, he thought. He didn’t want to be around Tom, but he desperately wanted to intrude. Except he had promised himself he wouldn’t complicate things for her. He would give Molly whatever she needed to be happy, even if that was Tom. A man who thought you could commit murder with a meat dagger.

"Yes, well, you wouldn’t be intruding," she said trying to smile. But he could see that it was a lie, and that she knew that he knew it was a lie. Now they were both lying. It wasn’t right. Molly was someone he had always felt he could be honest around, without fear. He hoped she really would get over him soon and move on with Tom, so that they could be friends again. He wanted that comfortable feeling back so badly.

”Well, we could dance now. Couldn’t we?” she said. She suddenly looked so vulnerable.

"Out here?" he asked, rhetorically. He considered it carefully. He had promised that he wouldn’t do anything to come between her and Tom. But he had also promised himself that would never hurt her again. Saying no might be the right thing to do, but he couldn’t bring himself to reject her like that. 

"That would be… nice," he said awkwardly. He stretched his gloved hand out toward her. "Molly Hooper, may I have this dance?"

She put her hand in his, and it felt small and delicate. As she moved closer he noticed that she smelled of lavender, but underneath he could still smell the disinfectant and formaldehyde from the morgue. It was comforting, having that familiar smell in such an unfamiliar situation.

The music that was floating out from the wedding was something modern that he didn’t recognise. He started a waltz in his head instead as he put his hand carefully on her waist. She rested her hand against his shoulder. He felt a buzz run from his shoulder into his stomach, and then lower. He looked down at her and she met his eyes for an instant before flicking her gaze to his shoulder. He led her in the dance with guiding pressure on her waist and hand. Her feet shuffled against the gravel.

Women had always been something of a mystery to Sherlock. Well, not women, they were straightforward enough to deduce. But the sexual feelings men usually felt toward them: that had been a mystery. He had often been entertained by John’s hopeless attempts and ridiculous behaviour around women. Sherlock had experienced the biological response to women that most teenage boys did, but it had never felt like it was part of him somehow. It was just his body. He took care of it, and didn’t think about it much.

The Woman had been different. It was the first time a woman had engaged his intellect with his sexuality. For the first time his sexuality had felt like a part of him, a part of his identity rather than just a bodily function. But he would never have had a sexual relationship with her. You couldn’t trust Irene Adler. Ever. But Irene had changed him, had opened him up to the possibility that one day he might have a sexual relationship that was more than biological.

He looked down at Molly again. She was lost in thought too, gazing off over his shoulder. His eyes traced over the milky skin at the nape of her neck, down her delicate spine to where it disappeared under the fabric of her yellow dress. He itched to slide his hand around her back and pull her closer to him. He wished she would rest her head against his shoulder.

He needed a distraction. He should say something. If they were talking he would have to pay attention to the conversation. He wracked his brain for something to say. What did people say in this situation?

"You look very nice today," he said, feeling frustrated at his ineptness.

She smiled up at him and his awkwardness melted away under that gaze. “Thank you,” she said, her cheeks glowing.

He was trying to think of something else to say when she interrupted his thoughts.

"You were wonderful today," she said, putting more space between them so she could look up at him.

The attempted murder, he thought. Of course! They could talk about that.

"Yes, well. Once I realised that the attempted murder of the guardsmen had simply been a rehearsal, all I had to do was deduce the common element between that incident and Commander Sholto," he said. He was preparing to continue but she interrupted him.

"That’s not what I meant," she said, her words tumbling too quickly. She took a breath, gathered her thoughts. "I mean it was excellent. You saved a man’s life today Sherlock, but I don’t think it was the best thing you did today."

“Oh,” he said, tilting his head in confusion.

"You were a wonderful best man. You made sure everything was perfect for John and Mary. And your speech. It was very moving."

He tried to brush off her praise, muttering, “Sentiment,” but she persisted.

"No," she said, her eyes flashing fiercely. "Not sentiment: honesty. That speech was possibly the most honest thing I have ever heard anyone say."

She was proud of him. The idea took some considering to get used to. But every time he looked back at her face, there it was.

"Thank you, Molly," he said. The expression on her face softened once it was clear he was taking her seriously.

He had done it right. And she was proud of him. He had been honest; he had been himself. And instead of saying horrible, terrible things, somehow…

She shivered as he gazed at her. She was cold. Of course, she was cold. She had come out without her coat into a spring evening.

"You’re cold," he said. He let go of her to unbutton his coat and watched as she flexed her hand, missing the contact with him.

"I’m fine," she said, but without trying to resist his offer.

He stepped forward as he swung his coat around her shoulders. When he pulled it tight around her he didn’t let go, but stood close to her, his hands holding the coat closed across her breast. He could feel her breath rise and fall unsteadily. He thought about how much he had missed her while he had been away.

When he had seen her again, in her lab coat in the locker room, her mousy hair parted to the side, the two years had just fallen away and the feeling of trust and familiarity had come rushing back. Except, there had been more. That feeling of more had been troubling him. Troubling them both, really.

“Sherlock, I’m afraid you may have been wrong,” she said gently, interrupting his reverie once more.

“About what?” His hands dropped to his sides as his mind raced, trying to identify any errors he had made recently.

“About yourself,” she continued, letting the coat hang open now his hands were gone. Her face was serious, her brown eyes gentle. “About being a sociopath. I’m pretty sure that sociopaths don’t have best friends, or care so much that their wedding day goes perfectly, or share their feelings so honestly in front of a group of people.”

He jerked his head to the side as he raced through the diagnostic criteria for antisocial personality disorder. Failure to conform to social norms and repeatedly performing acts that are grounds for arrest; repeatedly lying, use of aliases, or conning others for personal profit or pleasure; impulsivity or failure to plan ahead; reckless disregard for safety of self or others; consistent irresponsibility and a failure to sustain consistent work behaviour or honour financial obligations; incapacity to experience guilt or to profit from experience.

She shifted her weight slightly as she pulled his coat closed. He wrenched his attention back to the present, but his mind still buzzed with diagnostic criteria in the background. Irritability and aggressiveness; lack of remorse, as indicated by being indifferent to or rationalizing having hurt, mistreated, or stolen from another.

“And I don’t think a sociopath would give their coat to a woman because she is cold.”

Incapacity to maintain enduring relationships, though having no difficulty in establishing them. Callous unconcern for the feelings of others.

She put her hands on either side of his face, plunging his mind into silence. Her lips pressed softly against his cheek, sending another dose of dopamine cascading through his system. The air felt colder now, where her lips had been. She touched her cheek to his as she whispered, “You are a good and kind man, Sherlock Holmes. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Even yourself.”

He barely registered as she took off his coat and pushed it back into his hands. He watched as she seemed to glide across the night, away from him and back to the world of lights and music.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fic, so thanks for reading! Would love your comments about what worked for you and if any bits were jarring or didn't seem to flow. Thanks!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Getting Rid of Meat Dagger](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1373734) by [Condiemint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Condiemint/pseuds/Condiemint)




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